


Like Sunshine

by FadedSepia



Series: Clint, Bucky, & Winterhawk Prompt Fics [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gift Fic, Hot Weather, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Pining Clint, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 19:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Written for OriginalCeenote, who asked for a prompt on tumblr. Pairing was, clearly, WinterHawk, with the prompt,"I look at you and I think,'sunshine. Literal sunshine.' It's annoying."





	Like Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OriginalCeenote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/gifts).



> Okay, I hammered this out in a day in between running stats and doing too much of other people's programming. I did a cursory check for typos, but it's not been beta'd.
> 
> No disrespect to anyone in Newport News, I'm Tidewater born and raised, but I figured the Jefferson Lab might need some watching over by two Avengers, and it gave me the weather I needed.

It was September, and he was stuck in Newport News, too far from the bay to enjoy the breeze, too close to avoid the suffocating humidity that set the air solid. Was a place even _allowed_ to have ninety-eight percent humidity on a perfectly sunny day? He’d passed a bank displaying the temperature on his way into the hotel: 89° F.  Why did people _live_ here?

Clint was barely conscious and semi-functional after a full pot of coffee on the best of days, and that was without being sapped by the heat. So when the knock had sounded on his hotel room, he’d had only enough of his faculties to get upright and open the door. That last spark of wit had died a sudden death when faced with the man on the other side.

“Clint.”

It wasn’t that he’d been surprised by seeing James in civvies; their mission parameters had required it. Even if the shirt was new, it wasn’t outside of the normal range of James’ non-uniform attire. Which, as a matter of course, meant that he had on clothes one might reasonably wear in public, as opposed to the ratty jeans and t-shirts Clint preferred in his own down time. It was only that no one – _no one!_ – had any right to look that good in mustard.

It should have made him look as old as he really was, but the button-up only read as timeless on James. Tucked in to just fitted charcoal slacks, it would have scored high on Clint’s list of _things I want to peel off my partner_ any day. Which, really, was a list he knew he shouldn’t be keeping, even if he could probably pass the name off as complementary. In other environs, the ensemble would have been wonderfully flattering…

“Barton?”

… but here, with the heat, the humidity, and James constantly running hot – _alluringly, confoundingly hot_ – it bordered on obscene. The linen clung up along his arms and over his shoulders, even where it hadn’t been pulled taught by the muscle beneath. There was a clear outline from his undershirt and, since Clint knew where to look, a slight depression where metal met flesh. A ruddy flush started just above his collar bones, following the line of his throat and jaw up behind his ears…

“Hey!”

… _FUCK!_ Clint tightened his jaw, fighting the urge to gulp. “What?”

“Ya gonna let me in?”

Clint’s finger traced a line in the air that his eyes had already traveled; down, then back up, even as James stood in the doorway of their rented room. “You’ve been wearing _that_?”

“You said I needed to wear more colour for this opp. ‘ _Look tourist-y_ ,’ you said. Haven’t been a tourist in decades, so…” He muscled into the entryway, dropping one bag on the closer bed. James had to push back past him, again, to hang up his garment bag. “Just went with decent.”

“Not… Not _that_ much colour. _I_ can’t even pull that off…” _‘… but I want to.’_ His brain was still sputtering over _that_ as he closed the door. Clint pressed his cheek against the cold metal and sighed, trying to ignore the sound of his partner unpacking, knowing how that shirt would be hugging the muscles of his back. He missed Natasha.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was still reticent to send either of them out alone; their solution had been to put two occasional-amnesiacs on a team together. In theory, it was a terrible idea. Clint had lodged every protest he could, but the omnipotent _THEY_ had been firm in the decision. In practice, it was a _terrible_ idea. James was a complete professional and an excellent agent, but Clint… Well, Clint was _fucked_.

Or, to pinpoint the problem, not at all fucked. In eight months, he had barely gotten more than the odd  smirk or ambiguous chuckle out of his new partner. Clint wouldn’t kill for a wink, but he might consider some gross bodily harm. Moreover, he’d certainly never considered _murder_ as a way to get closer to Natasha. It might have worked, but they didn’t have that kind of partnership, regardless of what the office-drone gossip machine said. Of course, neither did he and James…

“Guess I just wear it better than you.” To be fair, James _was_ wearing it terribly well.

Clint bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue. He could _see_ just how well he could wear it once they got James out of it. He shuffled over to his own window-side bed, falling back onto it with a huff. “Bit much, dontcha think?”

“Nah, had to go with long sleeves anyway.” James shrugged, toeing off his shoes. “‘sides, goes well with a blazer if we have to go out.”

“Right…” _‘Or stay in. We could just stay in-’_ No. His mind would stay clear of the scrumptious image of James putting on that blazer. Or taking it off… “It’s not exactly… subtle.”

“I look like I _do_ subtle t'you?”

 _‘Wish you’d do other things. Especially if they were to me.’_ Clint wasn’t going to list the myriad other thoughts. This might be hell on earth, but he wasn’t eager to compare it to hell in hell just yet. Although, both the sniper and the horny-idiot sharing his brain case would gladly die at James’ hands. Or maybe die just a little on his- “I look at you, and I think, ‘ _Sunshine. Literal sunshine._ ’”

His unfiltered brain was going to get him killed. His partner was going to choke him in his sleep, and- Oh... Oh, fucking damnit if James hadn't just ducked his head. Clint could see the blush creep a little higher, almost to his temple at that, as the man smoothed a flyaway behind his ear. Was that even allowed? Was it real? Because if miracles could happen to human shit-shows like him, and it _was_ …

Maybe… Maybe he could work with this. Maybe, for once, a complete absence of tact could work in his favour.

“It’s a-,” ‘ _alluring!’_ Clint pinched the bridge of his nose, hiding the teeth that sank into his lip behind his hand. “It’s annoying.”

James was gone, bathroom door slamming on his words. “Fuck you, Barton.”

 _‘Oh, if only.’_ If only.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah... I don't know how to rate this, or how I wrote this. I hope you like it, Ceenote; I had wanted to start with something cute and it just went straight to thirsty-AF Clint Barton out of nowhere.
> 
> If you want to prompt me, [head over here and pick one](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com/post/183091746922/winterhawkkisses-veronicabunchwrites-100). It doesn't have to be WinterHawk. It doesn't even have to be Marvel, feel free to prompt me on other fandoms I've done if you want. However, regardless of fandom, I can't promise perfect results for every prompt. Sound fair? I'm going to try to do one every few days, if people ask.
> 
> Thanks in advance.


End file.
